


will you come see me

by knightinbrightfeathers



Series: are you ready for the country (club au) [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Archery, Ballet, Children, F/M, Fencing, Gen, Nursing, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Tap Dancing, country club au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:32:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinbrightfeathers/pseuds/knightinbrightfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of the employees of the Montreuil-sur-Mer country club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	will you come see me

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to rhien. Without her help, I would embarrass myself.

Feuilly likes early mornings. Good thing, too, because he's the one who opens up the MAYR Center (Montreuil-sur-Mer Athletic, Youth and Recreational Centre). It's not as nice when it's dead winter and his boots leak, but today is a perfect spring morning, with the sun shining and the birds chirping and the flowers blooming and quite possibly ‘Ponine laughing at him for being such a kid.

It's all right, though.

The morning’s solitude is disturbed only a little by the little electric car sitting in the Center’s parking lot. This is all part of the routine. Feuilly parks next to it, peering in through the window just in case. Sometimes Combeferre falls asleep in his car after he arrives, but today's a nice day, so he's not there.

Combeferre’s waiting on the bench next to the door. He nods good morning, and receives a nod in reply. Mornings are for quiet. Feuilly may not have much in common with Combeferre, but they both like this peace.

He unlocks the automatic doors, and they go in and start setting up for the day. Technically this is Feuilly’s job, but Combeferre is so uncomfortable doing nothing when someone's working that they do it together. It's like a children's game, a slow race to see who gets more done. Lights on, poking around to see no raccoons got in, AC coaxed to life.

The front desk computer is just being fired up, a process involving prayer and occasionally violence, when Éponine walks in. She's just a few minutes earlier than she usually is, just enough to catch Combeferre and Feuilly shaking hands solemnly.

“Morning,” she says, kissing Feuilly on the cheek and giving them both a wink that makes him blush.

 

One by one, or in Mr. Valjean’s and Cosette’s case, two by two, the staff march in, heralding the advent of the Center’s soccer moms and elderly members. R hums to himself, waving cheerfully at Combeferre, sitting behind the front desk. Musichetta salutes him with a huge paper cup. Courfeyrac’s sporting a particularly eye-smarting pair of turquoise shorts. Not that Combeferre pays particular attention to Courfeyrac’s clothes, or his legs, or finds his “Good morning, sunshine!” more endearing than he finds, say, Jehan’s poetic greeting of the day.

A little past ten o'clock, Combeferre hears the familiar strains of a song and looks up from his computer screen.

Bahorel strides in, although perhaps dances in is more exact. He's playing air guitar, occasionally pausing to strum more enthusiastically.

Combeferre’s laughing to himself long after he can't hear “Make a Man Out of You” anymore.

 

“Next Thursday,” Éponine says, sitting next to Jehan and Cosette.

Cosette pauses in the middle of her conversation with Jehan about the latest Orange is the New Black episode to pull a little notebook out of her purse. “Risky. Are you betting kiss, date, or wake up call?”

“One of them asks the other out,” Eponine says. “On an actual date, not one of those weird yearning ones they do.”

“Ooh, are we talking about Courf and Combeferre?” Jehan asks.

“Éponine and I have a betting pool going on,” Cosette says. “As two of the only people who actually asked someone out instead of pining. Smart money's on Joly, Bossuet and Chetta getting their shit together before Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Enjolras and Grantaire.”

“By smart money, she means her money,” Éponine says drily. Cosette sticks her nose up. “Not that we actually bet money. This goody-two-shoes won't have it.” Unspoken is Éponine’s unwillingness to fall back into bad habits.

“What do you bet, then?” Jehan asks, peeling their orange.

“Orgasms,” Éponine replies promptly.

Cosette chokes. “Éponine!”

“I want in,” Jehan says, making Cosette toss a bit of orange peel at them and Éponine laugh 

“The prize is actually candy,” she says. “Chocolate for me and caramel for Cosette.”

“Shall I put you down for candied citrus or gummy worms, Jehan?” Cosette asks.

“Turkish delight.” Jehan shrugs at their expressions. “They'll be together by this Thursday. Éponine thinks Ferre is going to seduce her boyfriend away from her. She's going to make them confess at knife point.”

“I do not!” Éponine says. Her friends’ faces say that they don't believe her. “How do you even do that?”

“Magic powers,” Jehan says, wiggling their fingers at her and stealing one of her cherry tomatoes. “Who did you woo into submission, Cosette?“

 

“I can't believe you managed it,” Joly says.

Bossuet, looking extremely blase for someone who had to be carried into the medic tent (which is not actually a tent, as tents are Outside and outside is unhygienic. Joly had put his foot down), shrugs. It's an odd motion, since he's lying down on the bed. He's almost the same color as the awful greyish tan of the rough paper covering the bed. He's that color because, well. “I think it's kind of funny?“

Joly frowns at him, but in a worried way. He doesn't want to make Bossuey think he's angry at him. Joly could never be angry at Bossuet. “Is the medicine working? Are you in pain? Are you hallucinating? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“None,” Bossuet says. He's right, because Joly is a failure of a nurse and Bossuet is going to die and then Joly will die of a broken heart and his gravestone will say something embarrassing like ‘here lies Joly, terrible medical practitioner who let the love of his life die of an arrow to the knee’. He can already see the funeral. It's very beautiful and moving, but they're using the wrong flowers because only Bossuet knows that his favorite flowers are daffodils.

“Joly, I'm fine, really,” Bossuet says. “Look, it's stopped bleeding.”

It has, but the arrow is lying right there next to Bossuet's leg, and the gash is right there. Joly had to pull the arrow out. It hadn't even been that deep, but it was an awkward angle and Bossuet's going to need stitches and maybe even the emergency room, oh god -

Bossuet sits up, wincing a little and placing a hand on Joly's back. “Come on, breathe with me, okay?”

Joly breathes until his heartbeat rate calms down enough for him to say, “It's not funny. You're hurt.”

“But it's like in Skyrim?” Bossuet tries. “The video game?”

And, yes, okay, Joly knows, it's just a little hard to laugh when your true love is wounded. He tries anyway, for Bossuet.

“It was kind of a lame joke, I guess,” Bossuet says apologetically.

“No, it was a good joke,” Joly says.

Bossuet shakes his head. “No, it was terrible. I deserve pun-ishment.”

“I'd punch you, but you're injured,” Joly says, smiling despite of himself.

“Aw, shoot,” Bossuet says. His grin is the nicest grin Joly has ever seen. He should probably do something, like give Bossuet his stitches or maybe kiss him. Kissing is a tried and true method of healing, after all. Joly is very open to alternative medicine.

A “Hello?” interrupts Joly's slow, dreamy drift towards Bossuet's mouth. He jerks backwards. There's only one person who could be forgiven for such an interruption, and she's standing in the doorway.

Joly’s cry of “Musichetta!” is echoed by Bossuet’s own. “What can I do for you?” Joly adds. He spots the little girl, no older than five, huddling behind Musichetta’s legs and kneels down to smile at her. “What's the problem, _mon chou_?" 

“Tell Nurse Joly, Vivienne,” Musichetta prompts. When the little girl only shakes her head, lower lip quivering, Musichetta crouches down. “Vivienne scraped her knee,” she tells Joly, very seriously.

“That sounds like something I should look at,” Joly says, also very seriously. “May I see, mademoiselle?”

Vivienne obligingly thrusts out a chubby leg. There's a tear in her pantyhose, but the exposed skin is only a little reddened and broken.

“Good news, Mademoiselle Vivienne,” Joly says. “I have the cure for your wound.” He gets up and fetches the bandaid box. Specifically, the ballerina ones. Joly has a collection of illustrated bandaids for these cases. “Pink or yellow?”

Vivienne takes a yellow bandaid, and Joly applies it carefully to her knee. “There, all better,” he says.

“What do we say?” Musichetta prompts.

Vivienne leans forward to inspect the bandaid. “Thank you,” she says, patting Joly on the chest. “You're a good nurse.”

Joly blushes. “That's a very nice thing to say,” he says.

“Yes, thank you, Nurse Joly,” Musichetta says. Her smile is blinding, like the sun, except of course Musichetta’s smile does only good things and can't give you melanoma.

“It's not me, it's the bandaids,” Joly demures.

Bossuet, who has been watching silently through the whole thing, chimes in. “Don't listen to him, Chetta. You and I both know he's a miracle worker.”

“I can see he's fixed you right up,” Musichetta says. She takes Vivienne’s hand. “Come, dear. Floreal and the other children will be missing us.”

Floreal’s a bit scary. Joly doesn't know if he would leave her alone with children, but Musichetta must know better than he.

Vivienne pouts. “Wanna stay with Nurse Joly,” she says, dragging on Musichetta’s hand.

Musichetta sighs. “So do I.” She gives Joly a look that says, help me out here, but Joly can't help her. He's still processing.

“What are you learning today, Chetta?” Bosduet asks.

“Pirouettes,” Musichetta says. 

“Well, I'm sure Vivienne doesn't want to miss that, does she? It's a very important part of ballet, the pirouette,” Bossuet says. He ducks his head to look at the little girl in question. “You don't want to fall behind, do you?”

Vivienne, thus convinced, allows Musichetta to lead the way out of Joly's clinic. Musichetta mouths _thank you_ to Bossuet over her shoulder as they leave.

Joly recovers enough to sigh, “You're so good with children,” in what he hopes is not a ridiculously sappy manner. Then he turns to Bossuet, and realizes that Musichetta’s presence managed to make both of them forget about Bossuet's needing stitches.

 

Grantaire loves his kids, he really does. There's nothing cuter than an eight year old stomping intently, tongue sticking out in concentration. Okay, possibly Musichetta’s dance classes are cuter, because children in tutus are one of those things, like ducklings or bunnies. You just can't resist them. But the point is, Grantaire very much enjoys every second of the hours he spends with little children, teaching them how to shuffle.

He's just a little impatient on Thursdays, that's all.

He's pounded into the heads of the parents of his Thursday afternoon class, with an efficiency that would impress even Éponine, that lateness will not be tolerated. Do they want their children to be the last ones waiting, all alone with the teacher? Do they want their child to feel humiliated? Singled out? Unloved?

He didn't say that. He can be subtle.

Still, it works. Grantaire almost never has to wait with one of his pupils for maman and papa to come.

Today is a lucky day. Even René’s papa is on time, leading the chattering boy away at 6:22.

Tap class on Thursdays ends at 6:20. Fencing ends at 6:30. Grantaire can cross the Center in seven minutes. His professors would probably have appreciated this close attention to time back when he was a university student, but sadly it was not to be.

And so, every Thursday, Grantaire races across the lobby in his stocking feet, tap shoes slung around his neck, gym bag bruising his side, slaloming around boys in muscle tees and old women with sweat bands around their foreheads.

Mostly, they're used to him. He tries not to dwell on that. Of course, dwelling on things is kind of Grantaire’s thing, but he has something much nicer to dwell on.

Pardon him, did he say nicer? He means more exciting. Exhilarating. Arousing. Inflammatory. Better in every way, is what he's getting at.

Grantaire skids to a halt in front of the back door to the fencing gym. He takes a few seconds to calm his breathing, dishevels his shirt in a different way, and runs a hand through his hair. The last only serves to make his hair even more of a disaster, but since that's the look Grantaire has gone for ever since he realized there was nothing to do but embrace his true self, it will do.

Grantaire walks through the door.

He's immediately met with noise. Figures in white lunge back and forth, while their friends look on, helmets under their arms. Grantaire liked fencing, back when he was still full of potential, before his mother walked in on him giving Geraud Favager a hand job. Actually, he liked it afterwards, too, but his parents had decided it was turning him gay and switched his fencing class for boxing lessons.

It's always a little trip into the past, the fencing gym. Grantaire makes his way to the bleachers, leaning on the front row banister. He's thirsty, tired, and stinking, but he wouldn't miss this for all the tea in China. Not even the green tea liquor.

The class ends late, as always, those extra minutes of putting away equipment and chatter as the pupils trickle out of the gym. Grantaire watches them go. They got into the regional competition last year. They're good.

The reason for this success is packing away his own equipment and tidying up. The teenaged boys and girls who take this class leave the place spotless, but that's just Enjolras’s way. Not that Grantaire’s complaining. Fencing gear can't be worn over bulky clothing, and Enjolras in yoga pants is a sight that makes Grantaire’s fingers itch for a pencil. Or, you know, lube.

“Don't you have anything better to do?” Enjolras asks. He's speaking to the wall, but Grantaire places a hand on the bannister and leaps over it in one fluid motion.

“And deprive you of my radiant presence?” Grantaire asks, grabbing a broom 

“I would survive,” Enjolras says drily 

“You would wilt without me,” Grantaire tells him. “You would shrivel away to a mere shadow of your former sunlike self, unable to see a pair of tap shoes or even a fencing foil without my image before your eyes, upon which, exposed to such a vulgar sight, your eyes would explode and spray your poor pupils with jelly.”

“I've seen far worse images than yours,” Enjolras says. He heads over to the bleachers to fetch his bag, apparently satisfied. “Courfeyrac in his goth phase, for example. 

Grantaire shudders, following Enjolras to the bleachers and shouldering his own bag. “I'm not sure if I should be flattered or horrified.”

“Both,” Enjolras says, as they leave the gym. He locks the door behind him. “Both is good.”

Grantaire holds a hand to his heart. “Apollo! Was that a reference?”

“I'm not a heathen, you know-”

They part ways at the parking lot, Enjolras to his car, Grantaire to the bus stop, past Javert at the gate. 

“Good night, Officer,” Grantaire says to the security guard, waving cheerily.

 

Javert hates Thursdays.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Suite: Judy Blue Eyes by Crosby, Stills and Nash.  
> For anyone wondering, "mon chou" means "my cabbage", because French terms of endearment are weird.


End file.
